The Forgetting(67)
Beneath his grip, the bones in Livvy’s wrist smarted, the pain hot, sharp. ‘Let go. You’re hurting me.’
He tightened his hold on her, brought his face towards hers, the heat of his breath angry against her skin. ‘I’m hurting you? Your sister acts like some crazy stalker and you don’t even have the decency to tell me? And now I’m the one in the wrong?’
His hand clenched harder around her wrist, and she heard herself emit an involuntary yelp, tears pricking her eyes. ‘Please, Dominic, stop.’
He gripped tighter, their eyes locking, her skin burning beneath his grasp. ‘Your fucking family. I don’t know why I bother.’ He threw her arm to one side, the corner of her wrist bone colliding with the edge of the wooden bed frame, a sharp pain shooting up her arm.
The house reverberated as he stormed out of the room and down the stairs.
And then the front door slammed, the sash windows rattled in their frames, and from the bedroom next door, Leo let out a piteous cry.
ANNA
LONDON
My key is already slotted in the front-door lock when I hear the phone ringing inside the house. My fingers fumble as I try to turn the key, its grooves jamming, refusing to rotate, while inside, the phone continues to trill. I think of Stephen on the other end of the line, worrying where I am, and I wonder if this is not the first time he has rung in the ninety minutes I have been gone, hoping to see Zahira and Elyas in the park only to find they weren’t there. Loosening my grip on the key, I wiggle it from left to right, watch it slide finally to the side, the Yale lock clicking open behind it.
Pushing the door closed and running into the sitting room, I pick up the phone, hear the breathlessness in my voice. ‘Hello?’
‘Could I speak to Anna Bradshaw, please?’
It is a female voice, and the fact that it is not Stephen causes me to pause momentarily before replying. ‘Yes, speaking.’
‘This is Carla Stanislaw, from the West London Wellbeing Service. We spoke last week about you having some therapy sessions to help with your amnesia.’
‘Yes, of course, I remember.’ Relief washes over me as I glance down at the empty notepad next to the phone, its blank page staring vacantly at me.
‘I’m glad I caught you. I was getting a bit concerned when you didn’t reply to any of my messages.’
There is a jolt inside my head, a brief fissure in time in which the past and the present collide, and I cannot make sense of them. ‘What messages?’
There is a pause before Carla speaks. ‘I’ve left a couple of messages on your answerphone. It’s completely fine if you’ve changed your mind about coming to therapy, but I do always like to speak to a patient directly if that’s the case.’
I try to arrange the therapist’s words into a meaningful explanation, but they skid and slide as if skating on ice. ‘I don’t understand.’
There is another momentary silence. ‘Your husband left me a message to say you were feeling better and no longer required therapy. I just wanted to check in with you before discharging you. It’s entirely your decision, of course, but most patients who’ve suffered amnesia do find a course of therapy helpful.’
The words swirl in my head as though circling around the edge of a whirlpool. ‘When did he phone?’
There is a rustle of paper. ‘On Tuesday, I believe. As I say, I’ve left a couple of voicemails on your answerphone since, so I’m glad I’ve got hold of you.’
I am aware of lowering myself onto the edge of the sofa, phone clutched in hand, knuckles aching with the ferocity of my grip. My head feels light, as though I have been spun too fast on a roundabout, cannot now re-orientate myself to solid ground.
I close my eyes, replay the therapist’s words in my head, my thoughts curving, looping, like stars in a distant spiral galaxy. I think about Stephen telling me that Carla had cancelled my appointment, about his reassurances that I would get another one soon. I think about the messages Carla says she has left this week, do not remember seeing the notification light flashing on the answerphone. Suspicions trip inside my head as Stephen’s voice echoes in my ear: I can access it remotely. I often check it during the day, see if there’s anything important. I don’t want you worrying about messages from the landlord or anything like that.
‘Like I say, it’s entirely your decision, but perhaps just come along for one session and see how it goes? You don’t have to come back if it’s not for you. But most people do find it helpful.’
I am aware of nodding before realising that Carla can’t see me. I open my mouth to reply but my voice seems to have got lost and I have to dig deep for it. ‘That would be great, thank you.’
‘Good. How about next Friday. Two p.m.? Do you want to take the address again or have you still got it?’
I ask her to tell me both the address and telephone number again, write them on the notepad, tear off the piece of paper and slip it in the back pocket of my jeans.
Carla is about to end the call when a thought barges into my mind, demanding to be heard. ‘Can I ask you something?’
There is a fractional hesitation and I wonder if she is looking at her watch, glancing at her list of appointments, thoughts already segueing to her next patient. ‘Of course.’
‘If someone has amnesia like mine – where they can remember things day-to-day but not about their past – should they be told about their life before the amnesia, or is there a danger in finding out too much, too soon?’ The words come tumbling out as though they may lose courage if they stall too long.